


curve: an emo love story: shine like stars (may you always)

by genee



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: Dr. K., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-06
Updated: 2007-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Pete covers his mouth with his hands, with his clothes, with Nick's skin, licking his way across Nick's collarbone, sucking on his throat, teeth marks and hickeys and Nick has to coax the words out then, if he can.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	curve: an emo love story: shine like stars (may you always)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little Dr. K. ficlet the other day, [doomed: an emo love story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/124376), and it was just a spur of the moment thing really, but it was already too late. Nick and Pete had taken hold, and I couldn't let them go. Title nabbed from an old primal scream song, special thanks to sparklingjadex for suggesting this pairing in the first place.

Pete almost always calls him Nickolas. It's pretty cool, even if Nick has no idea why he does it.

He's been doing it right from the start, though, sitting in Chris's office, not saying anything for the longest time, and then, just, _Nickolas_ , like they'd been formally introduced or something, which they hadn't been. It made Nick feel shy and happy in a way he hadn't in forever, made him blush and look away, rush of heat racing up his throat, pink across his cheeks.

Pete runs his fingers over his bangs, his thighs, his wrists. Nick knows he almost never stops moving, even when he sleeps.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


He writes in his journal, in his notebooks, on scraps of paper and once, way down low on Nick's back. Pete blogs, his fingers tapping at the keys.

>  _i watched the sun rise from the middle of the ocean, crazy blur between blue and gold and everything that isn't you.  
>  does this happen every day? i haven't been paying attention._
> 
> xo, pete
> 
> ps. naked boys + speed boats = AMAZING.

  


Pete works a lot harder than people think, which doesn't surprise Nick at all. Nick's been working harder than people think his whole life.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Chris says, "You wanna talk about why you think this a good time in your life to start fucking around with a guy like Pete Wentz?" and Nick shakes his head, spins the basketball up on his fingers. He knows he _should_ talk about it, but Chris asked, which means he's still got a choice in the matter. "Okay, so, what do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know," Nick says, because the thing is, now that he's here he doesn't want to talk as much as he thought he did, he just wants to sweat it all out, have some lunch or something, hang out with Chris. "We're recording still," he says, finally, taking the ball back out to half court. "It's weird without Kevin, but it's cool."

"Good." Chris reaches in for the steal, but Nick's quicker, blocks out with his hip. "Okay," Chris says, "here's the deal. You make this shot, I won't ask about Pete again until next week. You miss, we're talkin' about it now."

Nick shoots, nothin' but net, and he's not sure whether or not he's relieved. He's pretty sure he is. Things with Pete are good, and maybe they're fucked up in a weird way, but they're still good, and he really doesn't want to go looking for the bad stuff yet if he doesn't have to.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete covers his mouth when he laughs, and when he's thinking too much, and when he's not thinking at all. Pete covers his mouth with his hands, with his clothes, with Nick's skin, licking his way across Nick's collarbone, sucking on his throat, teeth marks and hickeys and Nick has to coax the words out then, if he can, Pete's back against the wall and Nick on his knees, Pete's hands twisted in his hair. Nick nudges Pete's legs wider, sucks a bruise inside his thigh; he licks into the hot crease of Pete's ass, rolls Pete's balls up against his dick, Pete's voice throaty and senseless, flood of words like sunshine after a long rain.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete stares at the fish in Chris's tank so long Chris wonders if he needs to call Pete's MD again, order some blood work, get his meds adjusted. Usually, Pete's not quiet like this. Usually, Pete can't stop running his mouth long enough to actually to _say_ something.

Chris rubs his eyes without taking off his glasses. "You wanna shoot some pool?"

There's a table downstairs but they take the bikes instead, ride out to a little place up the road Chris likes on weekday afternoons. The bartender pops two bottles of Dr. Pepper from the cooler without asking, and Chris calls her a sweetheart, orders a basket of fries. Pete smoothes his hair, runs his fingers over the rack of sticks along the wall.

Chris is leaning over the far side of the table, one foot in the air and felt under his forearm, the cue sliding between his fingers. There's no one else around, dust floating in the air, slow in pale sunlight. Pete says, "The thing is, uhm. I'm in love with my band."

"Yeah," Chris says, nodding. He sinks the nine, looks the table over. Pete's fingers are freezing when he hands Chris the chalk, and Chris looks at him carefully, doesn't look away. "I get that, man. I totally get that."

"You don't think it's fucked up?"

"I don't know if it is or not," he says, leaving the cue ball in the worst possible position. "They love you back, right?"

"Absolutely." Pete doesn't hesitate to answer, and he doesn't hesitate at the table, either. He's a smart player, all angles and confidence and Chris sees exactly where he's going with this because Chris has been young and famous and too stuck in his head to see the world around him, too many futures in his hands and everything spinning out in ways he never expected. "I don't want anything to change," Pete says, pointing his cue toward the corner pocket. "But, like, I want everything to change. Uhm. I want to change things."

Chris says, "Things are gonna change whether you want them to or not, and that's just the way it is. You gotta make the changes you want to make, roll with it when shit happens you can't control. Dude, you know this."

Pete nods. Loser racks, winner breaks, and Chris gathers the balls in the center of the table. Pete hits the cue ball sharp and two solids sink in clean, a stripe rolling into the side pocket after them. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

"Yeah, yeah," Chris says. And then, "What's going on with your band that makes you think they're gonna leave you behind?"

"Fuck, you really are a shrink." He doesn't sound surprised, though, or even particularly disappointed. "I don't know. They're, like, really god damn talented kids, and everything is huge right now, and I'm no fuckin' picnic. They just deserve better."

"Maybe they do," Chris shrugs. Pete's not wearing eyeliner, and there's a mouth-shaped bruise low on his back that shows every time he leans over the table. "Maybe," he says again, "But I'm more interested in what you think you deserve."

"I'm a textbook narcissist, dude. I'm not the best judge of what I deserve."

"Yeah, okay. I'll do the diagnosing around here, if it's all the same to you."

Pete blinks, looks up from his shot mid-strike and Chris retrieves the cue ball when he scratches. It's a waiting game, mostly. Pete will either say something now, or he won't.

"Your band was huge, and you split up."

Chris thinks, _technically, we didn't split up; technically, we're just on hiatus_ , which is really not the point. "We're not together 24/7 any more, yeah, but those guys are still my friends in ways no one else ever will be. We still hang out. We still love each other."

"Nick's band broke his heart." Pete says softly, leaning closer, his hip against the rails. "They're still breaking his heart."

"So, this is about Nick?"

"No," Pete says, and then, "Yes. Sort of. I'm too fucked up for him. It's, like, complicated, with everything, and I don't want to fuck him up, too."

Chris sighs. Kids today, man. Like pulling fucking teeth. "Nick's been in a band since he was twelve. He knows how things are."

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete likes to fuck more than he likes getting fucked, which is totally fine with Nick. He likes Nick on his back, on his side, on his belly, likes him with his knees tucked up and his shoulders low, and it's good, Christ, it's so fucking good. Pete moans his name and wraps his hand around Nick's dick, slick and sweaty and Nick hears himself, his voice all scratchy and high, Pete's hips against his ass, lethal, slamming in deep.

Nick falls asleep with his head on Pete's chest, the tv painting Pete's skin ghostly blue. Nick's still asleep when Pete slides two fingers in his ass and kisses him until they both come again, Pete's voice low and sexy, thrumming through his skin. Nick wishes he didn't need this as much as he does.

 _i am windblown_ , Pete writes on Nick's skin, all the letters in reverse. _this is where the world was born_. There's more, but it's smudged over the curve of his ass, and Nick can't read it in the mirror. He has no idea what it means.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete says, "You should know my mom's had this weird crush on you, uhm, forever, so when you meet her, try not to freak."

"I get to meet your mom?"

"Well, not if you're gonna freak," Pete says, laughing, and Nick stretches out in the sun. "Besides, Chris thinks you're fragile now, this shit with your brother, your boys."

Nick tenses, licks his lips. "He said that?"

"Nooo," Pete says, slowly, calloused fingers dragging across Nick's belly. "He's your shrink, dude. He can't say shit like that to me. I can just, you know, tell. He's known you forever, he doesn't want you to get hurt."

Nick leans up on his elbows, pulls the paperback from Pete's hands. He wants to see Pete's eyes, his mouth; he wants to know what Pete is thinking. He looks at the cover of the book for a clue, but there's nothing there, just the curled peel of an orange that looks a little bit like a seashell. "Chris doesn't want you to get hurt, either, and he _did_ tell me that. It's not about who he's known longer, okay?"

"Okay," Pete says, but he doesn't sound convinced. Then he twists a little, says, "You're a sexy boy when you worry about me, Nickolas. I think you should worry about me over here now, in this area, this one right here?"

Nick scowls, but Pete reaches up, rubs his thumb over Nick's bottom lip. Nick wants to say more, but Pete's thumb slides into his mouth, rough and salty, and Nick is easily distracted.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete's hips lose their rhythm and he breathes _Nick, Nick, fuck, Nickolas_ as he comes, and it's the hottest thing ever, at least to Nick.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Pete thinks Nick's the hottest thing ever, period. He likes the way Nick sounds with his dick in Pete's mouth, the way he looks spread out on cottony sheets, Pete's fingers in his ass and Nick's skin flushed golden pink. He likes the sound of Nick's voice at three in the morning, before he falls asleep. He likes Nick's temper, and the drawings he leaves all over the place, the tiny stories he makes Pete want to scribble wherever there's room to fit them in. He likes the way Nick's breath hitches every time Pete says _Nickolas_ , the way his eyes light up, the way his hands feel on Pete's skin. He likes the way Nick touches him all the time, like he's been doing it forever, his hand on Pete's neck, splayed between his shoulder blades, pressed against the small of his back.

  


  
**\-- -- --**   


  


Nick hears Pete tapping at his sidekick, and he smiles sleepily, pulls Pete close against chest. Pete should spend more time dreaming more than he does.

>  _nickolas is visiting, so if you catch ryan acting like a little bitch it's because he's jealous! ha!_
> 
> xo, pete

  


There's a picture of them the following morning, Nick looking over his shoulder, sun streaming in behind him and his shirt half undone; Pete's framed in the doorway, smiling, hitching up his jeans. Right after that Pete jumped on Nick's back and made Nick carry him, his thighs riding against Nick's ribs and Nick's arms twisted behind his knees, murmuring the filthiest things he could think of in Nick's ear the whole way.

It's all over the internets before they're back from breakfast, and Nick doesn't even care.

  


 

\-- END --


End file.
